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<h1><a href="https://archiveofourown.org/works/27234523">Strength and Wisdom</a> by <a class='authorlink' href='https://archiveofourown.org/users/sterlingseamstress/pseuds/sterlingseamstress'>sterlingseamstress</a></h1>

<table class="full">

<tr><td><b>Category:</b></td><td>The Last Kingdom (TV), The Warrior Chronicles | The Saxon Stories - Bernard Cornwell</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Genre:</b></td><td>Family Bonding, Family Issues, Gen, Uhtred canonically doesn't really like little kids, but it was really bad with Oswald, gisela is a good mom, mostly book canon</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Language:</b></td><td>English</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Status:</b></td><td>Completed</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Published:</b></td><td>2020-10-27</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Updated:</b></td><td>2020-10-27</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Packaged:</b></td><td>2021-05-06 22:02:04</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Rating:</b></td><td>General Audiences</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Warnings:</b></td><td>No Archive Warnings Apply</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Chapters:</b></td><td>1</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Words:</b></td><td>2,055</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Publisher:</b></td><td>archiveofourown.org</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Story URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/works/27234523</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Author URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/users/sterlingseamstress/pseuds/sterlingseamstress</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Summary:</b></td><td><div class="userstuff">
              <p>When Young Uhtred is having a hard time, his mother's there to comfort him. Expanding upon the small relationship we see between them in the books.</p>
            </div></td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Relationships:</b></td><td>Gisela &amp; Young Uhtred (The Last Kingdom)</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Kudos:</b></td><td>3</td></tr>

</table>

<a name="section0001"><h2>Strength and Wisdom</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>There were few things that broke Gisela’s focus while she worked, and the crack of weapons in the yard was at the top of that list. The crack was followed up by a crash and grunt, then a peal of laughter. Her grip slackened on the millstone, the slow purr of stones and crunch of wheat corns coming to a halt while dark eyes shifted to the open doors. </p><p>	Past those who stood and watched, young Uhtred rolled from where Sithric threatened to cut down at him with a feder. The boy—all elbows and knees, with a height that had yet to be filled out—scrambled to his feet, his sword and shield gone. When Sithric approached, moving much slower than an enemy ever would, her son skittered away, bending down to grab the forgotten blade. Seeing how wide his eyes were, it took all of Gisela’s restraint not to draw the exercise to a halt, even though the wooden blades would do nothing but bruise her child. </p><p>	“Lady?” One of her maids asked, and Gisela forced her eyes away to look at the young Saxon, whose brows were furrowed. “I’m unsure whether we have enough meat for tomorrow.” </p><p>	Tomorrow. Alfred was without a doubt riding their way, having heard of the latest exploit of her husband. Getting in a disagreement over an urn with Æthelred’s goon (for the second time) was certainly not the best advised conflict, but Gisela had not stopped it—informing her husband of Aldhelm calling her a bitch had, in fact, led to the man’s nose and jaw being broken while she had the men bring the urn back into the home. </p><p>	That reminder brought Gisela away from fears for her son—Uhtred needed to be a warrior, if he was ever to help his father retake Bebbanburg—and to what needed to be done. The daily grind of flour had been tripled, ale needed to be selected, and their food needed to be fit for the King of the Anglecynn (even if the food he served at his own palace was of lesser quality to her usual meals). She wiped flour-dusted hands on her apron, nodding to the maid. “I will handle the meat. Would you continue the grinding? I’d like it to be as fine as possible for our guests.” Her back and shoulders protested as she straightened after hours at the mill, dragging the heavy stone around in circles. It was meant to be Stiorra’s work, but the mere amount of it was too much for the girl. Instead, her lovely, dark-haired daughter sat wedged between two others, cutting turnips and carrots for the meal. Gisela smiled their way, her heart light with the fortune that came to them: a Roman home in Lundene, little worry over winter, and three healthy children. </p><p>	Now, if only Alfred did not have to come visit her husband whenever he disputed with his cousin. </p><p> </p><p>	They had plenty of pork for the arrival of Alfred and his men, and a hen that had stopped laying went in with the vegetables to thicken the broth. Gisela looked proudly over the spread, with a loaf for every man, even the flock of priests that filled her home with black. While the show of the nailed god’s wealth was understandable—it was no secret that she was as pagan as her husband—Gisela frowned at the way the cloth sucked the light from the limestone walls. </p><p>	While her maids served the best ale in her stores, she surveyed the men around the table. Warriors and priests did little to intermingle, though Beocca visited with Osferth in a corner. Alfred smiled when his eyes met hers, momentarily losing the grave look he so often wore around Uhtred. Gisela let herself smile in return, but her armor slid back into place when she looked back to the others, careful interest being the only thing visible to the untrained eye. Brows slightly arched, eyes devouring everything, lips set in the lightest of smiles, she’d become an expert at expressing her emotions through the slightest shift of her brow, perfect for times like this, where she was expected to be seen and not heard.  </p><p>	That meant, when she looked down the table and saw young Uhtred missing from his seat at the table, she could look at Uhtred and, once their eyes met, silently nod in the direction of the door to excuse herself. His brows quirked up, but he nodded in return, and she slid from the bench and the room. With the unchanged clamor of voices, it seemed as though none would follow her into the yard. The courtyard, usually the hub of all activity in the home, was quiet save for the cluck of chickens and a small, quiet sniff by the garden. Gisela strode that way, remaining mostly silent as she did. </p><p>	Her son sat on Stiorra’s milking stool, his back turned away from the hall and the feast, His narrow shoulders curled in, the boy making himself seem even smaller. Her mind raced with possibilities of what she’d missed. Had her visions passed to him? Was he hurt in some way? But with another sniff, she took off her veil, wrapping the fine wool around his shoulders, before kneeling before him. Her brows pinched together at the blotchy redness of his face, and she took his small, still childlike hands in her own before he could wipe his eyes. </p><p>	“What’s wrong, ástin mín?” Gently, she brushes flaxen hair from his brow. Every day, he grew closer in resemblance to his father, save for the way he often worried his lip beneath his teeth, as he did now. That was from her, always done when she thought no one was watching. </p><p>         His hands tightened on hers, but he didn’t open his mouth to share. He had the stubborn jaw of his father, but Gisela would not press young Uhtred to speak. That, as she’d learned from her brother, would only make him more reluctant to share the cause of his pain. </p><p>         Instead, she wiped the tears from his cheeks with her thumb. The stool she dragged over scraped against the earth, but once it was set, she sat and wrapped her arms around her son. For a while they sat, his head on her shoulder and her hand stroking his hair. The silence between them was an ocean she couldn’t cross, and not for the first time did she wish her knowledge of fate could lend her advice on how to raise her children, but to ask too much of the Gods was to invite madness and misfortune. </p><p>         The cock strutted close, inspecting the two intruders to his realm. Gisela’s lips tightened into a stern frown, but the cock couldn’t tell the difference between a worm and a bit of spare roving, let alone human emotions. He pecked at her shoe, but upon discovery that it was not in fact food, he strutted away. </p><p>         And somehow, with it he pulled her across the ocean, for young Uhtred spoke at last. “Father doesn’t like me, does he?” </p><p>         Ice shot through her veins. Sure, there was little equal footing they could meet on, but surely—”Why would you think that, miting? Your father and I love you.” Gisela smiled, but it felt too wrong even for her. It faded quickly, and she took her son’s chin to make him look at her, brows raising. </p><p>         He turned his head away, eyes falling to the earth. “I’m not strong. I don’t like fighting, especially not as much as him.” He pulled his hands from hers, electing to pick at the hem of his tunic, where wear was causing the nap of the wool to raise. At any other moment, she would’ve scolded him for such an action, he saw how many hours she and the other women spent producing the textiles that kept him warm, but instead she pulled him close once more, and pressed a kiss to his temple.</p><p>         If Gisela was being honest, she held him close and kissed him in the same way she’d done when he was born because the right words to say were still missing from her mind. Were there any? Reminding him that he was loved was all she could do. </p><p>         “Father and his men, they always know what to say. They’ve got jokes, and good insults, and I sit with my mouth open, looking like a fish because...I can’t keep up.” He let out a shuddering breath, the words delivered with a maturity far beyond his eight years of age. Her son straightened, drawing himself away from her embrace. “I’m just not as strong, how can I gain reputation?”<br/>
Her blood boiled at that well-trodden worry. Gisela was going to have a word with Uhtred as soon as Alfred was gone. But, the right words came to her at last. “There are more ways of being strong than being good with a sword.” </p><p>         “Like being good with a spear?” </p><p>         “No,” She smiled, bumping him with her elbow, “Look at your aunt, Thyra. Is she not strong?” Gisela paused, brows raised as she waited for him to tell her she was wrong. She wasn’t, but young Uhtred’s eyes merely widened. “I thought so. She survived Kjartan, without ever needing a blade. And King Alfred is strong, even when he’s at his most ill. There are many ways to be strong, and not every man needs to be like Thor in theirs.” </p><p>         “Then how, if I’m not a strong warrior?” His brows furrowed, the blue of his eyes bright with curiosity. Gisela was merely glad they no longer shone with tears. </p><p>         “Your mind. Odin is wise, and as much of a trickster as Loki, and yet he reigns over the gods.” She taps his head, lightly. “Always ask questions of what you know, and leave your mind open to the opinions of others. It’s wisdom and tactics that win wars and make kingdoms great, even if fighting wins an individual battle.” She should know, for her father and brother were both fools, and it had lost their kingdom. Wits—her wits, though she let the Abbot Eadred claim the credit—had reinstated Guthred’s place, while the city struggled to rebuild in his absence.</p><p>         Finally, a smile lit upon her boy’s face, and the rock in her heart lightened. He nodded quickly, and took her hand. “Tell me more!” </p><p>         “You’ll have plenty of time to ask me questions,” She motioned towards the doors, “but there is a whole room of wise men you may not have much time with. Will you come join us in the hall again?” The boy looked over his shoulder, his lips tightening into a line as he considered. Sensing his apprehension, she offered a hand. “I’ll introduce you to Father Beocca. You’ve met briefly before, but he was your father’s priest when he was your age.” </p><p>         Uhtred took her hand, squeezing it tightly, and Gisela stood. The milking stool she sat on turned over, but she didn’t mind that. What was more important was that he stood as well, and followed her to the doors. </p><p>         “I didn’t know father was christian.” His hand tightened again once they were about to enter, and Gisela knelt down. It always felt odd, looking down to speak to a person. Especially her own child. </p><p>         “He was. But now he’s not.” She brushed her fingers through his hair once more, making it nicer for the company within. “He was a good teacher, according to your father. It was he who was merely bored of lessons. I hope you will not tire of learning, though.” </p><p>         Uhtred, eyes wide, shook his head. As if she’d warned him, he let go of her hand and pushed the door open on his own, too-long legs carrying him to the squinting priest, whose hair had long since gone grey. </p><p>         Gisela watched as the boy tugged on Beocca’s hand lightly, his mouth moving quickly. Beocca glanced her way, brows raised, but eased into conversation with the child, his healthy hand gesturing wildly as he spoke. Young Uhtred hung on his every word. Content with the outcome of her suggestion, she returned to her spot by Uhtred, and entwined her fingers in his.<br/>
One look was all it took.</p>
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